The black walnut tree across from my kitchen window always signals the end of the summer before any other signs appear. It feels premature, the green orbs falling to the paved street. They’re a bit smaller than tennis balls, leathery, firm. They pop when a car tire runs over them. They make a soft “pock” when they hit the ground. I never knew black walnut trees until I moved to this house, nearly 30 years ago, now. I didn’t know how slow they were to admit spring, and quick to acknowledge autumn.

The other early sign of the end of summer comes from people. So many tend to jump ahead, prompted perhaps by the commercial advertising on all forms of media, telling us we must prepare for what is still weeks, if not months, away. I am frustrated by this hyper-speed leap into what will come next. What about the now? For me, advertising is so pushy. When I see beach ads in winter, or snow ads in summer, I’m compelled into a yearning for something other than the present. That’s not how I wish to be.

The end of summer is bittersweet: the loss of sun, of the sense of freedom that warmth and lighter clothing give, the return of school schedules promising new mental expansion. I always loved school, with new pencils and books, but still the loss of summer made me sad. It’s hard to sit here at the point of pivot, to be just here and witness the change.